


Poetry Festival

by aba_daba_do



Category: Over the Garden Wall
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26505838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aba_daba_do/pseuds/aba_daba_do
Summary: While making their way to the boat that will take them to Adelaide, the trio stops by a poetry festival.Originally written for Wayward Leaves Zine (2020). It had to be cut short for the original publication so this has an extended ending!
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19
Collections: Over The Gravity Falls





	Poetry Festival

The leaves crunched beneath their feet. The wind moaned like a wounded animal, curled on the ground. Wirt tugged at the fastenings of his cape, now riding up against his throat. The cold air snapped against his fingers, the harsh turn of autumn to winter tides. He paused, the forest looked the same from all angles, always thick with underbrush and the sensation of something lingering beyond his sight. “Maybe we should stop for the day,” he remarked. “It’s getting dark and cold.” 

Beatrice rolled her eyes, the flap of her wings a subtle beat against the raging wind. “It’s just a little bit further to the boat that will take us to Adelaide’s. We can be there by morning.” 

Greg shivered, clutching to his frog. “Aww come on, Beatrice, The Reverend is turning into a frog-sicle.” The frog let out a confirming bellow. 

Wirt took a couple of steps forward. Something flickered in the darkness, faint like a mirage or the glimmer of stars on a cloudy night. The air smelled like smoke, burning leaves and cooking meat. Voices droned in the distance, high and vibrant. “I think there might be a town over there!” 

Beatrice flew in front of Wirt, preventing him from walking any further. “Or we can keep moving. Every town we’ve been to has been full of weirdos.” 

“But Beatrice, it’s chilly,” Greg whimpered. 

“Fine,” she grumbled. “We’ll check out this town, but if it’s weird and creepy, we’re leaving.” 

Without much thought, Wirt and Greg clambered through the woods and down a hill. The leaves burst up at their feet as they slid, the smell of smoke growing stronger. Wirt stumbled after him, nearly slipping as he staggered around a fallen tree. The closer they got, the more the hum of voices turned into a chorus of laughter and glee. Plates clattered on tables as people hollered with delight. 

Peeling around the forest’s edge, Wirt entered into town of merriment. The townsfolk bustled around, cups filled with drink and smiles on their faces. A fire roared in the center of the towns square, roasting birds and vegetables. Stretching between the wooden roof of the town hall and a clock tower was a large banner that read: The Annual Avon Poetry Festival. 

Wirt put both hands to his face in joy. “A poetry festival!” Across from him stood a grand stage, where a young lover spilled his heart for an audience of hungry and adoring listeners. 

“Oh boy,” Beatrice grumbled to herself. 

Grabbing onto the nearest passerby, Wirt pulled him aside. “Excuse me, sir. But what can you tell me about this poetry festival?” 

There was a twinkle in the man’s eyes as he spoke, “Aye, the jewel upon the ear of Avon. Where the calcified hearts come to be cracked open and bled upon the stage. Where voices call out for heroes, kings, and pilgrims to bow before the arts. Where tongues drip, ears beg, and souls grow restless, grasping at the ink and parchment of the greatest minds and hearts. Only those whose words move mountains and fill valleys may find sanctuary here.” 

Wirt squealed, turning to Greg and Beatrice. “I have to sign up. All my life I’ve been waiting for people who understand the true art of poetry. Maybe we can stay here, just for tonight?” 

“I don’t know, these people seem like freaks to me,” Beatrice said. 

“Yeah, and they talk funny too!” Greg added. 

“They’re just people enjoying poetry. They’re not skeletons or animals. Besides, they have a warm fire and good food. I don’t see the harm.” Wirt grinned, the rounds of his cheeks like fresh red apples. 

“Alright,” Beatrice said, flying over to an empty chair at a table. “But only for tonight. We’ll have to be at the boat by tomorrow afternoon.” 

The man Wirt had pulled aside put a careful hand on his shoulder, “Heed my words, gentle traveler. For if what you invoke does not rise and support this great art, exile will fall upon your head as a broken crown.” 

Beatrice cocked her head in confusion, “What’s he saying.” 

Wirt swallowed, nerves creeping up his spine. “He said that if my poetry isn’t good enough, they’ll run us out of town.” 

“Ha! They are weirdos. I knew it!” she said. 

Sucking a deep breath, Wirt trained his eyes on the stage. “No. I shall not be wavered by them. This is my destiny.” He marched up to the stage where a young woman held the list of presentees. “I’d like to enter your poetry festival.” She scrunched up both her eyebrows when she looked at him. Realizing the error in his words, he spoke again. “For I am moved by my adventurous song and guided by words which illumine my soul.” That time she smiled and gestured towards the stage, allowing him to enter. 

Wirt had rarely found himself on display, sans for a few clarinet recitals. All the eyes and ears below devoured him. He straightened his back and cleared his throat, “Hi. I’m Wirt. And I am here to participate in your festival.” The audience was silent, unimpressed by introductions. 

Beatrice pulled one wing over her face, “Oh no, this is embarrassing.” 

Standing on his chair, Greg clapped several times. “Yeah! Woo-hoo! Go Wirt!” 

Letting out a breath, Wirt shifted on his feet, finding balance against the soft wood of the stage. “Winter robes the ground in thick white cloth. Black death hangs from the beastly trees. My love lies beyond me; a dream loosened from my brain. And I— I reside in the veil of nowhere, lost, as that same snow covers up my footprints. My path is like the moon, waxing and waning, darkening in eternal space. Would her heart beat for me should I return home? Would she flutter for me, like the wings of a bird against the vengeful wind? Or shall I be cast aside, like the feather of that same bird, destined to wander until I drift from her memory? Nothing but footprints covered by snow.” 

The audience was silent for a moment, hanging onto each of his words with scrutiny. And then all at once they erupted into marvelous and roaring cheers. “Ahh, thank you,” Wirt said, both flattered and embarrassed. 

“Speak again, traveler,” called an audience member. 

“Aye,” called another. “Speak!” 

A red hue flushed across Wirt’s face. “Oh uhm… I guess I could.” Then he cleared his throat, “I am pale with my wanton wanderings, from the dewy morn to the crepe and crown of evening. I stand in the silentness, between two trees where all my sighs become hollow. Birth and grave are the same within this frame, and here I think all the while, weary with the whirlwinds unfurled and the distant growl of black thunder on the plains.” The eruption of applause continued as Wirt beamed, face flushed with pride. “Thank you,” he said again. “I can’t believe people like my poetry.” 

At the base of the stage, Greg pushed himself upwards and tossed one leg over as Beatrice flew overhead. “You were amazing, Wirt!” Rolling himself onto the stage, he clambered over. “I have no idea what you said, but it was amazing.

Landing on Wirt’s shoulder, Beatrice looked away abashedly. “Yeah that was… actually pretty cool.” 

One of the audience members stood up, “New contestants! Share your words with us, travellers.” 

Beatrice held out both her wings and shook her head. “Oh no, we aren’t participants. We’re just his friends.” 

“Aye, speak!” called another, slamming the base of his mug against the table. “Woo us with voices sweet.” 

“I wanna share!” Greg exclaimed, picking himself up off the floor. 

“No!” Wirt and Beatrice cried. 

It was too late, as Greg addressed the audience. “I am Greg! G is for giraffes have long necks so they can pretend to be trees! Rocks know everything because they are very old. That's a lady, that’s a tree, my frog is green. Socks aren’t food. The sky is blue and I like you.” He concluded the poem by pressing against his cheeks and making a prolonged and wet fart noise as his frog bellowed in unison. 

Wirt grimaced, “Oh no… what has he done.” He winced, as if waiting for something to slap him in the face. 

“What a sweet young boy,” proclaimed a young woman, clapping politely. 

A man raised his glass and cheered. “Aye! The lad speaks from his heart.” 

“He is wise,” said another attendee. “Socks are not food and the sky is indeed blue.” 

Greg laughed and cheered and Wirt wiped the sweat from his brow. The townsfolk seemed rather nice, actually. There was no way these kind and passionate people could ever run someone out of town. He stretched out his back and yawned, “It looks like we’ll be staying here tonight.” Turning he made his way towards the steps at the back of the stage. 

“Wait!” screamed a patron. “We have not yet heard from the bird that rests upon your weary shoulder.” 

Wirt turned around while Beatrice shook her head fervently. “Thanks but no. I don’t do the mushy feelings stuff. So how about we just get going?” 

“Nay, you must speak if you wish to stay!” 

Wirt shrugged, “I think you should just do it. These people liked Greg’s weird poem. You just have to speak from the heart.” 

Beatrice grumbled and rolled her eyes. Pressing off from Wirt’s shoulder she flew towards the front of the stage. She spoke quickly, a sharp twist to her words. “Roses are red, violets are blue, I don’t have feelings, you people will like anything, leave me alone. The end.” 

The silence persisted her, not even the creak of a wooden chair of a cough to ease the tension building in the air. A cacophonous “boo!” hissed from the crowd. 

“Blasphemy!” called a very important looking man in a top hat and suit. “Vows made in lackluster apathy! A crack upon the marble statue of Avon’s Annual Poetry Festival!” Somewhere from the left, a tomato flew through the air in an arch of red and splattered at Wirt’s feet. “Out! All of ye!

“Hey!” Wirt replied, stepping over the tomato flesh. “Greg and I spoke from the heart. Don’t punish us for what Beatrice did!” Another tomato flew over him, nearly knocking the red cone hat off his head. 

“Oh boy!” Greg shouted. “They’re giving us free tomatoes, Wirt! Throw the next one into my mouth!” He let his jaw hang open like a snake attempting to swallow its prey. 

“They aren’t feeding us, they’re kicking us out!” Wirt replied, grabbing Greg by the arm just in time to duck out of the way of another tomato. “Let’s go!” The two ran off back into the woods with Beatrice flying behind, a clash of harsh voices echoing behind them. As they ran, the soft warm glow of the town slowly faded into the distance. 

Coming to a stop, Wirt found himself panting for breath. “Well, now I guess we don’t have a place to stay tonight.” 

Beatrice scoffed, landing in one of the overhead branches of the trees. “I say good riddance. We didn’t need to stay with those pompous weirdos anyway. The sooner we take the boat to Aidalade’s the sooner we all go home.” 

“Beatrice is right,” Greg said, mouth red and sticky from the tomato he munched on. “That funny words show was cool but I wanna go home.” The frog croaked in agreement from under his arm. 

With a sigh, Wirt looked over his shoulder at the pulse of light coming from the town. “I suppose you're right. For sanctuary is not found in the words of strangers but in the comfort of one’s own space. I am lost and therefore I must wander until I am found.” 

Beatrice scoffed, “Poetry time is over. Let’s get moving.” 


End file.
